


whispering of fields half-sown

by Eliane



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Character Study, First Kiss, First Time, Future Fic, M/M, semi canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 22:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3871480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliane/pseuds/Eliane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And how ironic is it that even now, at the end of all things, Louis’ mere presence makes Harry want to believe that anything is possible again. That the earth isn’t close to collapsing on itself, that the tomorrows are bright and shining and full of promises. Harry hates Louis for giving him something to look forward to when the sky only keeps getting darker. Harry loves Louis for it. "</p>
<p>[All of his boys come back to him in the end, but it’s Louis, Harry has been waiting for all this time.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	whispering of fields half-sown

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Jen](https://yslhoe.tumblr.com), as always, for making me actually write this and to [Clara](https://barefootau.tumblr.com) for the beta. 
> 
> This is only semi-compliant because Louis and Harry were never together. 
> 
> The title comes from a poem by Wilfred Owen called [Futility](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/248354)

Harry is tending to the garden when the grass first catches fire.

That’s how it starts.

There is no discernible pattern to the fires. One morning, Harry wakes up and the bushes near the gates of his property are burning. When he goes to sleep that night, it’s the shed at the back of the garden.

There seems to be no logic to it. The fires start randomly and end when there is nothing left to burn, only cinders where grass, plants and flowers once were – where life once was, Harry thinks.

No one knows exactly what’s happening. The fires spare inhabited places – lonely houses and huge skyscrapers alike. The shed at the back of the garden burns and, Harry learns, so does his neighbours’ – but no one lives there.

They try to extinguish the fires with the usual means. First, they use water. In the early days, people keep calling firemen to their rescue (only no one seems to really be in danger, no one gets harmed, no one gets burned – no one dies). There aren’t enough firemen for all the calls they get but in the end, it doesn’t really matter. None of what they do can make the fires stop. It doesn’t matter how much water they pour on the flames, it doesn’t matter how long they keep at it – the fires keep burning. They don’t spread, they don’t wither. They just reduce everything to ashes.

People stop calling firemen.

There is a strange beauty in seeing the world burn. Harry watches scenes on the telly that seem to have been lifted from a movie; firemen – glorious in their uniforms and devotion – battling fires everywhere around the world.

In Central Park – the flames create a circle around the Reservoir and there is something so achingly beautiful and devastating about it that Harry wishes he still wrote songs, so he could somehow record it, keep the vision intact for the entire world to see. But he doesn’t write songs anymore, hasn’t since they all parted ways. The vision exists only in his mind, flames towering in a perfect circle, for days and days.

When it seems that the world won’t stop burning, people try to find an explanation. They can’t pass the fires off as strange coincidences anymore. Groups of scientists are created, that are supposed to resolve what they are calling _The Great Burning_ and at first the telly brings news of progress, tries to assure people that this will end soon. They will find a solution because that’s what humans always do. They _solve_ things.

The first weeks are strangely optimistic. When Harry goes to the village, people are even joking about it.

“It was time for me to mow the lawn anyway,” Mr Rogers tells him.

But the fires don’t stop and the scientists don’t seem to be getting anywhere. People start getting restless. The fires don’t harm people but the vegetation is still, slowly and surely, being burnt, as they progress. Entire forests are being reduced to ashes, harvests are being lost, people start whispering – _this can’t last much longer, we need to do something, we are going to starve, what’s going to happen, god god god_.

The world has been burning for a month and there is almost nothing left of Harry’s garden. He has gotten used to the smell of burnt grass and wood being the first thing he inhales when he wakes up, has gotten used to the lawn becoming greyer and greyer until it being green is a thing of the past. There isn’t anything he can really do, has been living here for too long to go back to London or another city, and what would he even do there? Gardening isn’t an option anymore, but he cleans what has been burnt during the night every morning, he still accomplishes his other chores every day. He’s waiting, stalling for time until something happens, _something new_.

They are only, Harry thinks, at the beginning.

\----

Niall arrives when the riots start.

Harry is watching the telly when he hears the gates opening. He doesn’t move. Even though they haven’t been in contact since it’s all started, and despite the contact they did have over the years having always been sporadic at best, Harry never doubted that his boys would come back to him at the end of things.

(Not that Harry already knows it’s the end. There’s just this feeling, deep in his guts, the feeling that this is only just starting, that it’s only going to get worse.)

He didn’t know that Niall would be the first one but, now that he thinks about it, it’s not really surprising. It makes sense. In a way, Niall has always loved them the best and, of course, he would come to see Harry before the others did.

Harry is still lounging on the couch, watching the telly say: “Riots have erupted all around the world because of the lack of fresh products. _The Great Burning_ is putting a strain on harvests and dairy products. We will hear more about it later.”

Harry feels arms engulfing him and a strong scent that only belongs to Niall and he smiles.

\----

They’re sitting in front of the fire, Niall’s guitar carefully balanced on a cushion next to them.

“I’m going to Ireland. To be with the family, you know?” Niall says and Harry nods. “Thought I should stop to see you first, though.”

“I,” Harry begins. “Thank you. I’m glad you’re here.”

“That was the thing to do.”

They remain quiet for a while. Harry has things he wants to ask, things that have to do with Niall and the boys and – and Louis. He’s not sure where to begin. He hasn’t seen Niall – any of them, since he invited them here two years ago, a few months after he first bought the house. He had thrown a party and had asked them to stay and spend the weekend with him. They were all ready to get involved in new things and Harry had known that it might be his last chance to get them all together for a while. (He doesn’t think that it will now be the last time they were all together.) He had hoped that Louis, at least, would stay longer (forever) but he hadn’t – and Harry doesn’t blame him, never has, for anything. He has plenty of other stuff to blame for how it all turned out: circumstances, time, never ever enough time, life mostly. He hadn’t blamed Louis for wanting to be himself before coming back to him. (And if, somewhere, during sleepless nights, he had… Well. Those thoughts had remained confined to the dark and had never been allowed to come to fruition during the day.)

“Did you see the others before you left?” Harry finally asks.

“I did actually. We were together when the fires started. It’s not,” he glances at Harry, “it’s not really a thing we do regularly. Circumstances, you know? We were all in London and decided to have a drink. So yeah. We were all relaxing in Liam’s garden and then a fucking tree started burning and. We tried to call you and see if you were ok, but you know better than us that the reception is shit here.”

Harry does. That’s partly why he had bought this property. He had wanted something as far removed as possible from everything without having to actually move to another country – or another continent – and it had worked for him, for the most part. He certainly hadn’t envisioned that there would be what seems to be an apocalypse.

“Right, yeah. I know.”

“I’m sure Louis will be in touch, Harry” Niall says and – god, it hurts. It hurts that he’s so easy to read, so fucking defenceless when it comes to Louis. That even now, all those years later, it’s so obvious that Louis is the first thing that comes to his mind, the thing he cares about the most in the world.

Niall seems to sense that Harry doesn’t want to talk about Louis so they talk about other things. They talk about what’s happening, and how everything seems uncertain and scary. _Hell if I know what’s happening, mate, I just want to see my family before it’s too late, you know?_ And they talk about what they’ve done during the past two years, what shitty reception and interrupted Skype sessions didn’t allow them to talk about and yeah. They talk about the times they travelled around the world and were part of the biggest band ever and those are happy memories.

They talk until they don’t really have anything left to say, until the sentences become few and far in between, until Harry can feel sleep coming to him, softly, softly.

They sleep there, in front of a fire that could actually burn them if they touched the flames, while outside, bright, surreal flames keep reducing the world to ashes. Harry thinks about the guitar Niall hasn’t touched all night, about him saying _I’m sure Louis will be in touch_ , about a weekend, two years ago, when Harry had been so hopeful about the future and what it would bring him (Louis), about the five of them falling asleep in this very spot, entangled like cats, like vines growing together, entwined. He doesn’t think that it was the last time they did this. With Niall here, even if it’s only the two of them, he feels a little more at home. And it’s enough for now.

\---

Niall stays for a few more days. The guitar remains untouched. It’s like he can feel that it would be too much for Harry, that Harry isn’t ready yet. He helps Harry with his daily chores and they spend long hours speaking about nothing and just – laughing. It’s the best time Harry’s had in years. They watch telly and the riots are getting worse and worse in every part of the world. It’s hard for Harry to understand when his daily routine mainly remains intact. Untouched. But there are images of the world burning, of people running, of children screaming and Harry has to close his eyes and breathe. There is nothing he can do but wait and see what happens.

\---

When Niall leaves, on a Sunday morning, the fires stop as suddenly as they had begun.

For a moment Harry thinks that this is it. That the whole thing was only a strange event that will later be studied and deciphered and understood. That in a few years they will laugh about it – remember those weeks the world burned? For a moment he believes in a reprieve.

That’s when the rain starts pouring. It doesn’t stop for months.

\---

Things just. Deteriorate. If the fires were strange and somehow fascinating, the endless rain just brings a sense of loneliness and impeding doom. People start talking about _apocalypse_ and _flood_ and _divine punishment_ and Harry feels like he’s stuck in a November that will never end.

The rain, contrary to the fires, doesn’t spare anything. It floods the earth and infiltrates every whole, every crevice, every moment. It’s a constant noise of “ploc ploc ploc” that is driving Harry mad. The whole world seems to be lost. You can take measures against fire, you can avoid it and try to stop it but there’s nothing you can do against water. Water is restless and unforgiving and it just never stops. The only thing you can do is take refuge in buildings but even then you have to see the rain that keeps pouring outside, the windows getting foggy, the sky constantly dark and filled with clouds.

So when Liam arrives on his porch one evening, dripping wet from the rain, Harry feels like things are being set in motion again.

\---

Liam only stays one night. They don’t talk about Louis. They do talk about the weekend they all spent together here, they talk about the song writing Liam has been doing (with Louis, Harry knows), they don’t talk about the song writing Harry doesn’t do anymore.

The thing is, Harry only ever wrote songs about Louis. More than that, Harry only ever wrote songs about Louis that were meant to be sung. He didn’t write them for himself or for fucking posterity’s sake, he wrote them because it was the only thing he could do at the time, the only thing to keep himself from going mad from having Louis so close to him, always in reach, and yet never close enough, never for him to reach. So when they parted ways, Harry stopped writing. He doesn’t miss it, per se. Or, at least, he doesn’t miss writing songs. He misses Louis.

In the morning, they hug and Liam whispers to him “he’ll come, don’t even think he won’t”, and leaves before Harry has time to answer.

This time, it keeps raining.

\---

It stops raining three weeks later. When nothing else comes pouring from the sky, when no fires start burning again, Harry thinks that it may be the end. That they’re done.

Then, the earth shakes and shakes and shakes.

\---

He meets with Zayn at the local pub. Or, at least, what used to be the local pub.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn says, “I only have a few hours. I would stay longer if I could but.” He makes a gesture with his hand showing the deserted pub. Harry knows. He knows that the riots have long stopped, he knows that people are now fleeing. None of those people know where they are actually going, but it seems that for most of them, going away is enough.

“It’s fine,” Harry says, and it is. Harry has nowhere to go, really. His mum and his sister seem to understand that he needs to stay here, that he needs to be found. He doesn’t think they resent him.

So here he is, with Zayn, alone in a deserted pub in the middle of nowhere and Harry laughs at how absurd it all is.

“Are you ok, mate?” Zayn asks, and yes, yes. Harry is fine. Harry’s great. Harry thinks that Zayn is probably the only one who can come close to understanding what he feels, who was almost as close with Louis as he was. Harry also thinks that Zayn is the least able to understand what Harry feels because he never fell in love with Louis. That’s what they talk about, mostly. About their friendship with Louis. And after that, they talk about being young and so alive and forgetful of the world around them.

There’s a loneliness that Harry sees in Zayn he can identify with. It’s not there for the same reasons, it doesn’t come from the same places, but it’s undoubtedly there. For a moment, Harry wonders if it was all worth it. Everything they’ve done, everything they’ve sacrificed, only for it to end like this. But then he thinks about Niall stopping here on his way to Ireland, he thinks about Liam whispering in his ear that Louis would come, he thinks about Zayn, in front of him, laughing at a joke Harry just made and he thinks yes, of course it was. Even if Louis doesn’t come, it was all worth it.

He focuses on Zayn again and their conversation and lets himself enjoy those few hours with him and he doesn’t think about Louis once.

\---

When it starts snowing, Harry doesn’t have the strength to feel surprised anymore. He checks on his wood supplies and goes back to waiting.

\---

Louis is the last one to come to him. Which is not unexpected. If things have to end, Harry thinks, it’s fitting that they should end how they all began. With Louis. (Louis whose smile was worth more than a thousand suns, who literally kept them together for years, who is the only person Harry has ever been in love with and whom Harry has ever wanted – so much, so much).

Harry doesn’t know when it will all come to an end, but it must be soon. So much has happened, he can’t imagine it will last much longer. But the thing is.

If things have to end, if Harry has to know that the days are counted, that he will never see Gem again or hold his mother in his arms, if Harry has to accept all those things, then it only makes sense that the universe – or whatever deity is up there – would give him that. A few hours, a few days left with Louis. Enough to remember what the sun feels like when he hasn’t seen a ray of sunshine in months. Enough to remember what it feels like to breathe. To live.

Yes, Harry thinks. Louis is here. Finally.

“Hello,” is all Louis says and his voice is weirdly soft. Not that Louis’ voice is never soft, not that Louis is always this brash, beautiful human being it’s just –

Harry had forgotten. He had remembered and committed to memory those dazzling, incredibly funny parts of Louis but he had forgotten how tender, how strangely shy he could be. Harry hates himself a bit for it.

(It’s like Harry has forgotten whom he really fell in love with. Like the memory living in his skin – under his skin – has been nothing but a lie, a shadow of the truth. It’s like. Harry looks at Louis and remembers why he used to write songs.)

So Harry does the only thing he can think of. He hugs Louis. (He doesn’t think about how small Louis’ waist feels under his hands, he doesn’t think about Louis’ body against his. This is about comfort. This is about the two of them at the end of the world. This is about being truthful, finally. Because they have no other choices, maybe. Or maybe, maybe because they both finally grew up. So when Harry hugs Louis it doesn’t mean anything other _than I missed you. You were my best friend and I missed you and I’m so so fucking sorry._ ) Harry likes to think that Louis still knows him well enough to understand that this is an apology. A way to erase the past. He feels Louis’ hand squeeze his hip and knows he has been understood. Forgiven. Not that there’s ever been anything to forgive but them missing opportunities again and again.

Sometimes, Harry thinks, you have to forgive yourself for things that you never did. And that’s what Louis’ hand, coming to rest on his hip, just did.

When Harry finally lets Louis go, Louis’ hand cups his jaw, forcing Harry to look him in the eyes. Right. Harry had, apparently, also forgotten how incredibly honest Louis could be. Not that he minds the reminder. Not at all.

“Hazza” Louis says and Harry lets a sigh escape. He knows, he knows. It has always been like this between them.

“Louis”. Is the only thing Harry can answer and really. It should be enough. It is enough. It means _you’re here now and once, once we were eighteen and young and forgetful and so so stupid and we didn’t know how to deal with this_. It means _look how we grew up, how far we’ve come. It means we didn’t grow up together but we grew up next to each other_.

“So here I am.” Louis smiles and there are still – god – there are still crinkles around his eyes and Harry feels the heaviness of the moment suddenly lifting – Louis is there and smiling and Harry is smiling, too. It doesn’t really matter if the world is ending, he is finally with Louis and things. Things are alright.

\---

“So, you still smoke then?” Harry asks, although it’s pretty obvious since they’re out in Harry’s garden, shivering in the cold.

“It’s not like it really matters now, anyway.” Louis answers. There’s something self-deprecating in his tone that makes Harry’s blood boil. He wants to shake Louis until Louis fucking understands what he meant to Harry, what he meant to all of them. Harry wants to tell him that he was never just some boy, that he was what glued them together, what made them us. Something so essential you forget about it until it’s not there anymore – and then everything falls apart. Harry wants to tell him that everything he is now, everything he has, he owes it to Louis. Not because Louis gave it to him – Harry built a life for himself – but because Louis’ presence in Harry’s life is what made all those things possible. Louis opened roads – fucking avenues – for Harry just by being there and being himself and showing Harry that he had choices. A future.

And how ironic is it that even now, at the end of all things, Louis’ mere presence makes Harry want to believe that anything is possible again. That the earth isn’t close to collapsing on itself, that the tomorrows are bright and shining and full of promises. Harry hates Louis for giving him something to look forward to when the sky only keeps getting darker. Harry loves Louis for it.

Louis has always been this bright presence in Harry’s life. Has always had the ability to make him see things in colours, when the world only seemed to be in black and white. It’s been like this since Harry was sixteen and now is not different. So Harry stays close to Louis and waits for him to finish his cigarette.

The snow keeps falling.

\---

“They’re all gone.” Harry says, when Louis asks about the villagers. What he doesn’t say is – they are probably never coming back. What he doesn’t say is – I should probably have gone, too. Louis hears it anyway.

“And why didn’t you? It’s not like you had to stay here. You could have gone home, to Anne and Gemma.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Harry could have gone too, probably should have. Not that he really believes that the situation is better elsewhere but it would have been the normal, rational thing to do. Except Harry knew Louis would try to find him, and what better place to wait for him than here?

“I hoped you would come to see me”, is what Harry says. “I didn’t want to miss you.”

What he doesn’t say is – if the world has to end and everything has to burn and if the rain has to pour and pour and if the frost has to take over the earth then I wanted to be in a place where I knew you would find me. I wanted to stay here, right here (I would have waited all my life for you).

“Harry,”, Louis says and Harry has to look at him. His sharp profile looks incredibly fragile, like he could fade away at any given moment, like he could just – disappear. It’s also the realest thing Harry has ever seen and he never wants to forget it – how high and sharp his cheekbones are, how alive his eyes seem, how incredibly heartbreaking the harsh line of his mouth is. “I would have found you anywhere”, he finally finishes and Harry’s heart breaks.

He wants to cry and he wants to scream that this is unfair, that it didn’t have to be like this. He wants to go back to the beginning and be sixteen again and see Louis for the first time and feel the rush, the dizziness of infatuation and let themselves _be,_ this time. He doesn’t want to change a thing.

“If you could”, he says, “If you could go back. Would you do things differently?”

“It’s a nice idea, isn’t it?”

Harry watches Louis inhale and he knows, he knows that they are so close to verbalizing something that has stayed unspoken for so many years that he feels faint. He knows that they have always had an agreement, that things have always been clear between them. But agreements made through shared glances and secret nods and songs written for the other and, yes, one time, whispers in the clear light of dawn, aren’t the same thing as finally saying them. Letting them lie in the open and being unable to take them back.

Louis takes his hands between his.

“I’m in love with you”, he says, and if Harry thought his heart was breaking earlier he was wrong, so so wrong. His heart is breaking now and expanding at the same time, filled with so much love and adoration that he can barely breathe. The thing is – Louis has always been the brave one between the two of them. Even when Harry thought they were close to the finish line and went around throwing stuff like “not that important” and “don’t knock it ‘till you try it”, Louis was the brave one. The one who took so much upon himself to give them a chance, to turn things around. And if, when all was said and done, Harry decided to buy a house in the country, somehow hoping that he wouldn’t have to say anything, that Louis would just follow him there and that they would start a new life (so happily) he certainly doesn’t blame Louis for not doing it. Not getting it. Not getting that it was their future and not his that Harry was thinking about.

Harry has heard, again and again, people talking about his charm and his presence and how he was born to be a star. But they were all wrong and Harry has always known that. Maybe Harry attracted light but Louis emitted light. Some people are like that. Some people shine and burn, incandescent, and Louis has always been the most luminous thing Harry has ever laid his eyes upon.

“I’m in love with you”, Louis repeats, as if testing the words now that they have been said. Like saying them again gives them weight, anchors them into reality. “And yeah. I know that we… I know that we don’t really talk about that but it’s the end of the world so. Here it is.”

He stops and the silence stretches between them. The snow is still falling and Harry almost regrets the beginning, regrets the burning fires and the circle the flames made around the Reservoir. The snow is too ruthless, too quiet. It just keeps falling and falling without any end in sight.

“I’m”, Harry begins, because even though Louis isn’t finished he knows he can’t not answer what has just been said, “I mean. Me too. I’m in love with you.”

He exhales shakily. There it is. They have both said it and the world hasn’t ended. Not yet, Harry thinks hysterically. Not yet. They still have time. He nudges Louis’ knee, trying to convey that he can resume speaking now. And Louis looks at him, smiling and smiling, so bright that Harry wishes he could drown in it. In him.

“Right, so. Yeah. I’m in love with you. Always have been, Haz.” He stops for a moment and Harry smiles in a way that he hopes is encouraging. “And I know that we never really talked about it but I never doubted that everything would end up with us being, you know? Together. So, for a while, it was ok. Like, the thing with Eleanor was ok, because it wasn’t real. It was what it was. And when it all ended I kind of knew, I think, that you wanted me to be with you and come with you but I needed time I guess. I needed time to mourn and sort myself out and think things through and then time passed and it was hard to keep in touch? Your reception is shit, mate.” (At that Harry laughs) “So it just. When I finally sorted stuff out it just became hard to call and like. See if you still wanted this. Us. So I never did.”

And yeah. It makes sense. It’s not even far from what Harry had imagined. Louis had needed time and Harry had been willing to give him time but they actually had never promised anything to each other, at least not in so many words. And the thing is that Harry knows Louis. He knows Louis better than he knows himself, he knows the ugly parts and the harsh parts and he knows the insecurity masked by layers upon layers of loud laughs and bravado. He knows how careless remarks and inane comments had cut deeper than anyone else ever thought and how Louis had always brushed them off as nothing. He knows how Louis has always put everyone else before him – Jay, and Lottie, and the girls and fuck, Harry. He knows all that and Louis is looking at him like Harry may resent him for what happened. Harry feels like he might cry.

Instead, he kisses Louis. Louis’ lips are soft under his and they open immediately and Harry can’t even begin to convey how much he loves him, how every good thing in his life happened because once upon a time he met a boy in a bathroom and this boy became his whole world and not once has he thought about looking back. If they had time, if only they had time Harry would tell Louis that. Harry would tell Louis that he was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, that, for a moment, the world stopped and he felt like he would never be able to breathe again. That he thought, right there and then, that he couldn’t let this boy go, that he would have to see him again - whatever it took. If they had time, Harry would tell Louis about every little thing Louis has ever done that allowed Harry to be more himself, to feel more confident, to get braver. He would tell Louis how every touch from him seemed to burn him, marks left on his skin, marks that he later turned into tattoos, tattoos like prayers, like invocations, like never ending declarations of love. He would tell him that there are so many parts of him that are made of Louis, because of Louis, that he’s never sure what is his and what is Louis’. He would tell Louis that most people would find it frightening but that he doesn’t care, he doesn’t give a flying fuck.

(He would tell Louis that he’s not afraid of love.)

He just keeps on kissing Louis and he hopes that it’s enough to convey even a small part of everything he wants to say to him. It’s tender, at first. Tender and hesitant and so fragile. Like they have to take time to convince themselves that, yes, it’s really happening, that they are finally kissing and it shouldn’t. It’s just a kiss, it shouldn’t feel so light and so heavy at the same time but it does. And then the kiss gets dirtier and hotter, more desperate. Louis grabs his hips and pushes their crotches together. Harry feels drunk and everything around them is heavy and he can barely breathe. He breaks the kiss and looks at Louis. His lips are parted, his eyes almost closed, his eyelashes so so long, forming shadows on his cheeks. Harry could drown in him.

He kind of does.

\---

Harry is falling asleep when he hears Louis whisper:

“I’m sorry, Haz.”

Before Harry has time to ask what he’s sorry for he says.

“I’m so sorry for thinking we would have time.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, isn’t even sure he could. There’s a lump in his throat and he feels like he can’t fucking breathe and everything around them and in him is so so heavy. He wants to scream and he wants to fucking cry and most of all he wants to take this weight that seems to have settled permanently on Louis’ shoulders on his and to never let him carry it again. Instead, he brings their entangled hands against his chest, right where his heart is beating, and hopes that Louis understands what he means. _Every breath I take, every word I’ve ever written, every heartbeat is just for you, just for you._

Eyes closed, Louis’s palm resting against his heart Harry falls asleep thinking _I love you I love you I love you_.

\---

When Harry wakes up he feels disorientated. Not because Louis’s body is against him, warm and oh so real, but because he had somehow had this idea that once they got together, once everything between them was ok, the world would finally stop going mad and that it would just all _end_.

But outside the snow is still falling like it has been for weeks and they’re still breathing. They’re still alive. They still have time.

They should make the most of it.

\---

They spoke about it once and only once. They were in a hotel room in New York and the first lights of dawn were coming through the white curtains, illuminating everything.

They had fallen asleep together and had woken up entangled, a mess of boyish limbs and childish hopes. They were facing each other and so close, so close it was a miracle they weren’t kissing.

Harry doesn’t remember exactly how it went but at some point, he thinks, one of them had said that they shouldn’t, that it just wasn’t the right time, that it would complicate everything and the other had agreed.

What Harry remembers, distinctly, is this: their bodies entwined, holding each other like they were never going to see the other again, like it was their last chance to feel the other’s body against theirs. Like it was the end of the world.

If Harry had known, at the time, that they wouldn’t be this close again until the world was truly ending, well. Maybe things would have ended differently.

(Harry thinks about the hotel room in New York once. Then he goes to find Louis and blows him and forgets everything that isn’t Louis and now and them.)

\---

They fuck a lot. They fuck and make love and everything in between. They have no schedule and no time to lose and they always have been incredibly physical people. They kiss and they hug and they touch each other all the time and here, alone in Harry’s remote house, in the middle of nowhere, it’s sometimes the only thing that can convince them that they’re still alive.

\---

Sometimes they speak for hours. During the night, when they’re both unable to sleep, they play games. They imagine what they could have been.

“I would be a baker”, Harry says and Louis snorts.

“Of course you would, Haz.”

“Hey”, Harry answers, somewhat petulantly. “I was a great baker.”

“I’m sure you were.”

“I was, I definitely was. So I would be a baker and you would be a drama teacher.”

“How original. You’ve really outdone yourself with this one.”

“Shhh”, Harry says. “And we would meet and it would be so unoriginal like you said. We would just be two people, with really ordinary and boring jobs, except they wouldn’t be boring to us, and we would just meet and like. We would fall in love. It would be really simple, there would be no drama, nothing really. You know what I mean? It would be really quiet and maybe we would be the age we are now, maybe we would be a little bitter and sad, but we would meet and fall in love and like, rediscover the meaning of life or something.”

“Well, that was depressing, Harry. I’ve got better. I’d be… I’d be a famous football player. Premiere league stuff. Hot stuff. And you’d be a popstar.”

“That’s literally Posh and Becks, Lou.”

“No, no it’s completely different. And even if it was, who cares? So you would always come to my games wearing outrageous outfits – _there’s nothing outrageous about liking Saint Laurent – shh it’s my turn_ – and I would be half in love with you because, really, who can resist shirts with pink flamingos on them – _flamingos are noble creatures, Lou – oh god please let me finish –_ so one day, after a game I would just like, come to you and ask you out – _really? You would? – yes well, of course I fucking would? – can we… can we do that please? – really Harry? – I mean… - yes, yes we can ok. Christ, I can’t believe you didn’t let me finish._

\---

The thing is, Harry starts getting used to it. He gets used to waking up next to Louis, he gets used to Louis being with him all day, he gets used to this life they’re building for themselves. His food supplies are getting thinner and thinner and the wood is getting sparser and sparser but the fires stopped and the rain stopped and the fucking earthquakes stopped and it seems logical that the snow and the frost would stop, too. It doesn’t seem foolish to hope that maybe, that’s the end of it, that it should all finally end with them still standing, still alive.

It’s not a hope that Harry entertains often but it’s a hope.

He should have known better.

\---

The snow stops falling on a spring morning. For a few minutes, Harry entertains the idea that he was right, that that’s the end of it and that they are done. The snow stops falling and everything is quiet. Louis comes to stand next to him, his arm encircling Harry’s waist. They wait together. They wait a minute, and another and another. And then, the hope Harry didn’t even know he had been relying on so heavily comes crashing.

The world starts burning again. Except, this time, the flames are surrounding the house. The house Louis and Harry are in.

The telly has long stopped broadcasting but Harry still tries. When it doesn’t work he tries the radio, and then his phone – but no one answers.

He thinks this is it, and he thinks _fuck this can’t be it, this can’t be it I need more time, we need more time_ , and he thinks _I don’t know how much time we have left_ , and he thinks that it was so foolish to still have hope, and he thinks about the songs he didn’t finish and he thinks that he only kissed Louis twice today, and he thinks about a hotel room in New York and he thinks that he needs to get a grip, get a fucking grip, right now. He needs to think about Louis, next to him, who looks terrified and lost and maybe this is the time for Harry to give everything back to Louis, to be as brave as Louis once was, to hold his hand and never let go.

“Lou”, Harry says. “Lou, look at me please.”

(Louis looks at him.)

“It’s not like we didn’t know, yeah?”

“Fuck, Haz. I just thought…”

“I know.” Harry answers and he does.

“Look, do you remember this time we were stuck in Charles de Gaulle airport?”

“Yeah. Yeah I do.”

“Right, so you where doing whatever with Zayn and like I was bored so I went looking for things to do and I ended up browsing for books and they were airport books so they all seemed really boring to be honest, but there was one from a French poet…”

“Of course you had to stumble upon a French poet.”

“Shh. So there was this book from this French poet and like, I did some research after and he used to live in the South of France and it all seemed really nice and about summer so I bought it. And I don’t remember everything but there was this poem and like I remember the ending.”`

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It was about summer and about your first love and how nature and the person you love just become one in the eyes of the poet and about nostalgia, I guess, about how everything seems bright and pure when you’re young.”

Louis laughs. “Only you would give me a fucking poetry lesson at the end of the world, Haz.”

“I can stop?” Harry asks.

“No, please continue. Please. I like it. It’s very you.”

“Right so, the poem is rather short but I remember. I remember the ending.”

Louis’ hand holds his tighter and, all around them, the flames seem to be glowing brighter, getting closer. Harry thinks that they only have a few moments left and it seems insane that they wasted so much time – again, that they didn’t learn. But then Louis turns him around and they are facing each other and Louis kisses him. It’s not a kiss people would write songs about, it’s brief and harsh and a little too rough and desperate, but it’s a kiss nonetheless and then they’re hugging, Louis’ arms around his neck, Louis’ face against his cheek. They stay like this for a while, unmoving, before Louis speaks again.

“Finish the story please.”

“Louis.” Harry says. “I love you. So fucking much.”

“I know, Haz. I love you, too. Please finish the story.”

And Harry is not, he’s not crying. He can do that. Finish the story.

“Right so. The poem ends saying _:It was the beginning of delightful years. The earth loved us a little I remember._ I just thought it was nice. The idea that whatever happened, the earth would remember the poet and the person he was in love with. Us.”

And Louis repeats, before it all goes dark _, the earth loved us a little_.

I remember.

**Author's Note:**

> There are some references to 1d songs, I didn't really bother quoting them because I'm assuming everybody knows them. 
> 
> The line "There’s a lump in his throat" comes from the song Riptide by Vance Joy. 
> 
> The poem quoted at the end comes from the French poet René Char and is called Evadné. You can find the English translation [here](http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/French/SelectedFrenchPoemsoftheTwentiethCentury.htm#_Toc281664456).


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